


Sick Leaves and Soup

by ratpoet



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (figuratively), M/M, Season 2, and also texting, and nurse mickey, and they sit on swings later, bc honestly s2 is glorious, idk lots of stuff happens, there's soup, this turned out longer than i expected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 05:15:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3679149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratpoet/pseuds/ratpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Ian isn’t in the store. Big deal, Mickey thinks. He can handle the counter by himself- it isn’t exactly rocket science. He doesn’t want to, but he can.<br/>Of course, he had underestimated just how boring manning the counter could get, especially without Ian around.<br/>He has literally nothing to do. He doesn’t even know how time passes when Ian’s there, because that fucker cannot stop talking, and yeah, he sometimes talks about shit that’s actually interesting, so fuck Mickey for not getting bored when Ian’s around.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Leaves and Soup

**Author's Note:**

> Caring nurse Mickey is awesome, okay, and so is season 2. That's literally the only reason I wrote this. Enjoy! :)

Mickey turns up at the store at 10, as usual, only to find it locked. For a minute, he thinks with a mixture of disgust and something suspiciously like jealousy that the reason it’s locked is because Ian is fucking Kash in the backroom, but then he realizes that there’s no ‘We’ll be back soon’ sign hanging at the door, only a ‘Closed: 10 pm- 8 am’ sign. 

Luckily, the spare key has been lying in his pocket since the day Linda grudgingly handed it to him and he’s wearing the right pair of pants, so he doesn’t have to pick the lock to get in. Not that he'd have any qualms about it, but he prefers to not have an angry Linda after his ass.

Mickey goes in, only to find the store empty, the counter dirty and the shelves unstocked. So Ian hadn’t come in at all. It isn’t like Mickey cares or anything, but just to be sure, he checks the back room. And then he checks it again, even though he knows there isn’t any place to hide there- he and Ian had tried enough times, but had ended up getting caught by that bitch Kash anyway.

So Ian isn’t in the store.  _Big deal_ , Mickey thinks. He can handle the counter by himself- it isn’t exactly rocket science. He doesn’t want to, but he can.

But nobody comes into the store for at least two hours, and normally that would make Mickey happy, because that meant more opportunities for fucking, but today Ian isn't there so Mickey’s horny and so bored that he just keeps staring at Ian’s name written on the math book lying forgotten on the counter, for want of something better to do. Ian has such a neat handwriting, all pretty loops and perfectly dotted I’s, but Mickey’s seen it turn to an illegible messy scrawl when he’s in a hurry. Mickey realizes with disgust that he’s now examining Ian’s handwriting. He’s  _that_  bored.  

Another hour and he’s just about ready to start attempting one of Ian’s math exercises, even though he hates math with a passion, so it would pretty much be akin to dying a slow, painful death. He has literally nothing to do. He doesn’t even know how time passes when Ian’s there, because that fucker  _cannot_  stop talking, and yeah, he sometimes talks about shit that’s actually interesting, so fuck Mickey for not getting bored when Ian’s around.

He hadn’t even realized when hanging out with Ian stopped being some kind of novelty or freak occurrence and became routine instead. He doesn’t know just how much Ian’s already told him about his life and home and his fucked up family. He hates himself for remembering most of it, but he can't help it- Ian’s words just stick in his mind, no matter how hard he tries to get them in one ear and out the other. Probably because the mouth they come from is fucking amazing at sucking his dick.

(Though of course it’s more than that, because things just have to always be fucking complicated with Mickey, don’t they?)

 He doesn’t even know what he’s doing when he takes out his phone and sends a text to Ian before he can stop himself and just think about it for two fucking seconds. He’s had Ian’s number since that time Ian kept begging for Mickey's number and Mickey, in a moment of after-sex weakness, gave it to him. Ian had said he only wanted it to call Mickey when he wanted to fuck, but Mickey knew it was more likely some kind of girly shit like  _staying in touch_  or something. And since Mickey had already dug his grave, he decided to fuck it all and add Ian’s number to his phone. After all, if he was going down anyway, what could be the harm? (He didn’t believe himself either.)

Of course, Ian just couldn’t heed Mickey’s warning to not send him any lame fucking shit. Ian had had his number for a grand total of one day before he started sending Mickey shit he never replied to- lame jokes and pictures of sunsets and random videos of kittens ( _but they’re so cute, Mick!_ ) and one time, a slew of photos documenting the life of Debbie’s squirrel, which lasted three hours before getting flushed down the toilet by Carl. (Seriously, Mickey’s ashamed he even remembers any of this, but how can you forget a squirrel named Mr Squirrel by Debbie and Nut-Ripper by Carl?)

Mickey had been proud of himself for not replying to any of that shit, and managing to resist the temptation to send Ian a text either, but now he’s gone and undone it all in one master stroke. 

It’s only a  _where the fuck r u_ , nothing girly like  _I miss you_ , so at least there’s that.

Ian texts him back so fast it’s shameful.

 _Mickey?!_  

Mickey rolls his eyes at the reply. He should’ve known Ian wouldn’t be able to play it cool. But he can just about see Ian’s wide smile and shining eyes, so maybe he doesn’t really mind.

  _no, it’s kash._

 _of fucking course its mickey, dumbass_ he types back.

 _I’m at home_ , Ian answers. Mickey knows he probably wanted to type back something snarky, but he’s glad Ian knows not to push his luck.

 _and y the fuck aren’t you at the store?_ Mickey replies.

_I have a fucking cold._

_Called in sick._

An image of Ian with his nose as red as his hair pops up unbidden in Mickey’s mind, and he’d be lying if he says he doesn’t find it cute, but he isn't supposed to find Ian  _cute_ , only annoying and too clingy and occasionally, sexy, so he quashes down the thought.

_u hiding because of a tiny cold? grow the fuck up bitch_

He hopes Ian doesn’t realize that that’s just Mickey’s way of saying  _I miss you_. Or maybe he hopes that Ian does. Either way, it doesn’t matter, because he’s pretty sure Ian knows anyway.

_Shut up, it’s a bad cold. I have like, snot running down my face right now._

Mickey wants to be disgusted by that, but he isn't. That doesn’t have to mean anything, of course. (Or at least, that’s what he tells himself).

  _nice visual_ , Mickey replies.

 _Shut up, you dig this,_  Ian replies immediately.

And maybe Mickey does, and maybe he likes Ian flirting with him, but fuck if he’ll admit to it.

 _you wish bitch_ he sends back. And it’s not a very original comeback, but it’s not like Ian is the King of Comebacks.

 _I don’t have to_ , Ian replies, and Mickey’s oddly pleased to find that he was right- Ian is lame, but he’s the good kind of lame. The you’re-lame-but-you’re-cute kind of lame. And that’s it, Mickey has fucking filled his faggy quota for the day.

 _You getting bored without me?_  Ian texts. And it’s the truth, so of course Mickey has to shut this shit down pronto.

 _fuck off_ , he texts Ian. 

And then resolutely puts his phone back into his pocket.

(He’d like to say he ignored the beeping of the phone at various points throughout the day. But he may have sneaked a peek once in a while. Okay, once in every few minutes. But at least he didn't reply to any of the texts.)

                                                                           -x-

Mickey closes up the store an hour earlier than usual, because he can't stand another second in there, but then when he’s outside and he’s walking towards his house, he realizes there’s no point. That’s not where he wants to be.

He tells himself he’s being polite and nice and all that shit, like Mickey Fucking Milkovich does that kind of thing, but it’s better than knowing he thinks Ian’s special.

He makes a short stop at a 24/7 on the way, because why the fuck not, and swipes a can of one of the ready-to-eat soup cans that he’s fed to Mandy so many times when she’s been sick. He doesn’t know what they put in there, but it fucking works. Of course, the only reason he wants Ian to get better soon is because he’s horny and he wants to be fucked as soon as possible. That's it.

When he reaches Ian’s house, he doesn’t bother with any of that texting shit. He straight up throws pebbles at Ian’s bedroom window.

Hey, if he's going to do this shit, he's going to do it fucking properly. He should’ve maybe stopped for flowers, too, but there’s only so much his stomach can handle- he doesn’t want to throw up over Ian from the cheesiness of it all, after all. Not that that wouldn’t be hilarious, but he also doesn’t want Ian to get any ideas (though it may be too late for that).  

It’s too late when he has the epiphany that it’s a fucking shared bedroom, because Lip’s fucking disdainful face is already peering out at him from above by then. He doesn’t even have the time to flip him off before Ian’s jostling Lip out of the way, and shouting to Mickey, "I’ll be down in a sec, Mick!"

Mickey tries to act like that dumbass nickname doesn’t make him want to smile like an idiot every time Ian says it.

Thankfully, Mickey doesn’t have to put up with any more awkward encounters with Ian’s siblings because Ian’s actually down in what feels like a second. His face is red, his nose is red, there’s a hankie in his hands, and he’s fucking panting, like he ran all the way down the stairs (and knowing Ian, he probably did). Maybe not Ian at his best, perfectly turned out self, but fuck if Mickey doesn't like this Ian a bit too much.

“You’re here?!” Ian says. Mickey manages not to smile at this idiot, but he’s not sure his eye-roll is entirely convincing.

“No, this is just a ghost standing in front of you. Honestly, Firecrotch.” This time, Mickey’s eye roll is better. Not perfect, but better.

Ian’s still staring at him like he’s going to disappear any moment, but he’s also smiling like Mickey knew he’d be. That smile that is too much, always too much, so Mickey thrusts out the can of soup and hands it to Ian to not have to look at it anymore.

“What’s this?” Ian says, even though the label’s right fucking there.

“Read the fucking label,” Mickey says. And Ian’s not looking at him, so he smiles, just a little bit.

“Soup?! You bought fucking soup for me?” Ian says, his face splitting into that smile again. In hindsight, maybe handing him the soup wasn’t the brightest idea, but Mickey was sometimes an idiot. More often than not, these days. He doesn’t know what it is about Ian that brings out all the stupid, foolhardy parts of Mickey. It can’t be a good thing, but damn, it sure as hell feels like it is.

“I stole it,” Mickey mumbles, eyes downcast. Not that that’s the point, but he’d rather not look at that smile anymore, thank you very much. It’s doing things to him and his stomach, giving him the fucking stupid urge to reach out and stroke Ian’s hair or some shit and he knows that can't lead to anything good. If he was someone else, or even somewhere else, then maybe he’d heed these urges to be fucking _affectionate_ like some faggot. But he’s not, so.

“That’s so sweet of you, Mick,” Ian says, and yes, it’s supposed to be sarcastic, and Mickey fucking pretends it’s sarcastic, but they both know it’s not.

“Shut up and drink up,” Mickey says. He figures they’re better off not talking. But of course he underestimates Ian’s ability to speak volumes with his eyes. A look is worth a thousand words, and all that. Or maybe that’s not how it goes; Mickey doesn’t really give a fuck.

Ian takes a sip of the soup and immediately coughs it out.

“Ginger soup?! Really, Mick?”

And scouring three shelves for that particular flavour was definitely worth it for Ian’s expression.

-x-

They start walking towards who knows what, because apparently they do shit like that now, and Mickey pretends he has an idea where they’re going, but he’s finding it hard to give a shit with the way Ian’s eye-fucking him between sips of the soup. He sneezes while drinking it and then there’s soup all over him and Mickey both, but Mickey’s laughing too hard at Ian’s indignant expression, like it was somehow the soup’s fault, to care. Ian smiles at him and Mickey just wants to reach out and kiss him, because at least that will wipe the smile right off.

Mickey lights a cigarette to distract himself, knowing all the while that Ian’s fingers would soon come up to steal it from Mickey’s mouth and would brush against his lips, and that’s the fucking opposite of not-distracting.

-x-

They end up walking around the park with only two rusting swings. It’s big and old and has been here since anyone can remember, and yes, it’s not exactly great, but it’s better than those new, snotty playgrounds that have sprung up from God knows where. Mickey just knows Ian probably has memories of it- good, happy memories of playing with all his brothers and sisters. But Mickey doesn’t, not really, except for that one memory he has of visiting it with Mandy when she was eight as a Christmas present for her, back when they did that shit, and getting the fuck out of there in five minutes because Terry somehow turned up there at that very moment. Of fucking course he couldn’t let them have even one fucking good day at the park.

So when Mickey suggests they fuck right there, out in the open, it’s because he wants just one good memory to hold in that place (and also because he’s maybe a little drunk on all that beer he had in the store because he was bored). Ian doesn’t even raise an eyebrow, because sex may not be PDA, but it’s close enough, and Ian’s all over that shit.

But Ian can't stay quiet, so he just has to say, “You aren’t worried about getting my germs?”

“I'm not scared of a fucking cold,” Mickey says, scoffing. Honestly, that ship sailed a long time ago- if Mickey can fuck Ian, even with the threat of being discovered by Terry hanging over his head, then he sure as fuck can fuck Ian with the threat of catching a cold hanging over him.

“Don’t you think I should be more worried about catching herpes or some shit from you and your old-man-balls’ loving dick, anyway?” Mickey says, smirking slightly. Though in all honesty, when they’d fucked without a condom that one time, he’d been too horny and impatient to even realize it until it was too late to do anything about it in any case. So the thought of catching something from Ian hadn’t even been a concern.

“I told you I don’t fuck other guys without protection,” Ian says, rolling his eyes. And yes, that’s one way of saying that Mickey’s special, but Mickey’s fucked if he ever admits that, even to himself.

“Why do you even fuck those geriatric viagroids at all, man? Old people are disgusting,” Mickey says. (And that’s one way of saying he doesn’t want Ian to fuck other people, but he’s not going to admit to that either, so don’t hold your breath.)

“They know their shit,” Ian says, and he’s smirking, because he fucking knows Mickey by now. He can read between the lines like a fucking pro, and Mickey’s powerless to stop him from figuring out everything Mickey doesn’t want him to understand, doesn’t even want himself to understand.

And he’s also smirking because he loves getting Mickey all jealous and competitive.

“You wanna chitchat or you wanna get on me?” Mickey says. That is about enough flirting for one day, he decides.

“You fucking say that every time,” Ian says, smirk intact  
“That’s because it works every time,” Mickey says, and he’s rewarded by an eye roll from Ian.

But Ian moves to take off his shirt, so that’s a victory in itself.

They strip quickly, because Mickey may be sort of drunk, but he still knows it’s dangerous as fuck.

That doesn’t stop him from moaning when Ian moves forward and latches his mouth to the soft skin on Mickey’s neck, though. He’s trailing his fingers all over Mickey’s body, and one of his hands is tangled in Mickey’s hair, and _fuck_ , it feels so good.

Mickey doesn’t understand Ian’s obsession with marking Mickey and leaving signs of his presence; the tangible indicators of the way their bodies were pressed together when Ian had thrust into Mickey. Not that Mickey needs reminding- his memories of sex with Ian are always so fucking vivid, but he’s not really complaining when Ian’s mouth starts moving down, edging closer and closer to his dick, leaving angry, red marks everywhere.

Ian’s just taken his dick in his mouth when the first shiver runs down his body, so that Mickey can feel his mouth vibrating around his dick. Mickey ignores it, because Ian’s tongue slithering over his dick feels too good, but then Ian takes his entire length in his mouth and he can't even think about anything and he’s thrusting towards Ian. Instead of increasing pace, though, Ian freezes for a moment and backs up a bit, nose twitching all the while.

And then he literally fucking  _sneezes_  on Mickey’s dick.

Mickey pushes him off. He’s not sure whether he should laugh or be pissed, but for the moment, concern wins out.

“You okay?” he asks, and tries to mask the concern, but he’s not really successful.

“Yeah, I’m fine, come back here,” Ian says, and moves to take Mickey’s dick in his hands again, but Mickey scoffs and says, “Fucking forget it, man. You’re sick.”

“It was one sneeze, Mick,” Ian says. And Mickey’s fucked if that isn't a fucking  _pout_  on his face, but Ian can be a stubborn fuck. Mickey just rolls his eyes at that, because seriously, he’s not drunk enough for this shit.

“We can fuck when you’re better. Don’t want you to get hypothermia or some shit,” Mickey says. Then he realizes it sounds too caring and adds, “I can't go without fucking for _that_ long.”

Ian still beams at him because that means Mickey only considers it ‘fucking’ if it’s with Ian. That was non-exclusivity shot in the ass, right there.

Though if Mickey’s being honest, non-exclusivity had already been shot in the ass that day they fucked without a condom, without even discussing any of it. And maybe even before that.

-x-

They end up sitting next to each other on the swings, drinking the cans of beer that Ian had somehow concealed from Mickey all this while, and sharing a cigarette. Mickey tries not to think about how it’s a mistake to get drunk around Ian and how fucking faggy _‘sitting on the swings’_ with anyone is. He’s legitimately surprised by how easy it is. He wishes blocking out all thoughts of Ian was that easy, but of course, he’s always been out of luck when it comes to having an easy life.

Ian talks softly and Mickey has to move closer to him to hear him clearly (and that’s sort of the whole point, but Ian pretends Mickey doesn’t know it and Mickey pretends he doesn’t know it, so it’s okay). They both gently move their swings forward and backwards and their hands keep brushing every once in a while, and Ian’s smiling and so is Mickey, and maybe this is all a fucking mistake. But Mickey’s drunk and Ian’s sick, and honestly, they both deserve a break, so Mickey just shuts down the warnings that keep popping up in his mind every few minutes.

Mickey thinks it’s a shame that Ian doesn’t kiss him, because he doesn’t think he’d be able to retaliate in the state he’s in. Or maybe it’s a blessing, who even fucking knows anymore? 

But Ian stays where he is and Mickey stays where he is, and they may not even have fucked, but Mickey can't bring himself to complain.

 

-x-

They end up having a competition to see who can swing the highest, because of course they do, and they don’t even have a fucking clue who won, because Mickey cheats and pulls Ian’s swing down in the middle and somehow his swing and Ian’s swing both entangle, and then they’re both on the ground, lying on top of each other, Ian straddling Mickey’s waist.

Mickey thinks his arm is twisted but it doesn’t matter because they’re both laughing and maybe there’s a blush spreading over Ian’s face, though it’s hard to tell in the dark, and Ian’s legs are pressed up against Mickey’s body, and they’re both too high on the moment to give a flying fuck.

-x-

 The next day, Ian’s already in the store when Mickey walks in. The fucker doesn’t even look like he was sick yesterday and Mickey wants to wring his hands at the injustice of it all.

Because of course Ian’s fucking fine, but Mickey’s already caught a cold from him in the space of one night. And not even a manageable cold, but a full-blown, snot-running, sneezing-every-second, blocked-nose-weird-voice cold.

(But Ian is the best fucking caretaker in the world, so Mickey can't find it in himself to mean it every time he complains or gives Ian the finger.)

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, please leave comments and/or kudos! :)
> 
> Come talk to me @ fiandvee.tumblr.com


End file.
